


Whispers (or, five scandalous secrets that Varys uncovered and what he did with them)

by l_cloudy



Series: KinkMeme Fills [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Five Times, Gen, Intrigue, Present Tense, Scheming, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 06:48:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/884215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/l_cloudy/pseuds/l_cloudy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exactly what it says in the title. Featuring political intrigues, mad Targaryens, and the glorious decadence of Robert's court. And Varys, of course. Watching everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whispers (or, five scandalous secrets that Varys uncovered and what he did with them)

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by the prompt, _five scandalous secrets that Varys uncovered and what he did with them_ , over at the ASOIAF kink meme. It’s quite an old prompt, which I only got to see last night, so I’m writing this for the hell of it more than anything else.

I

Tomas Derko is from Braavos and sounds like it, his smooth accent rolling out his tongue with a musicality Verys has always loved. They are speaking in the Common Tongue of the Seven Kingdoms, in the understanding that, even if they were spied, not many people in the poorer part of Pentos would know enough to understand them.

Privately, Varys also suspects that the older man chose a language  he speaks better than Varys does to give him some sort of edge, but it is of no importance. Such small adversities can easily been ignored, and he would rather ignore the slight rather than show his discomfort.

“I have been told,” the Braavosi begins, speaking to the air somewhere near to Varys’s left ear, “that, were one in need of information, a certain city mouse would know where to look.”

Varys manages a pleasant smile. “Indeed. And what it is that you need to know, my friend?”

The other man is somewhat unbalanced by Varys’s direct approach, and he smiles even more. He knows what the man needs like Derko himself does, but he wants to hear it all the same.

“A letter was stolen from me. A very important letter, and I would very much like to have it back.”

The Braavosi is amiable enough, and he likely has not yet heard the latest rumour, that is Varys himself stealing treasures all over Pentos, and asking gold to give it back. This is not precisely the case, as Varys has stated quite loudly to a number of different persons these last few days, but there is some truth in almost every story, and Varys knows where the letter is. Now, it is just a matter of price.

“And what sort of letter is this?” Varys asks. “You wrote it, I presume.”

He did it, one year and seven days prior, according to the date. “Is there anything remarkable about it, some seal, perhaps?”

“A green ribbon,” the other man answers. “Though I doubt it is still there. It was written in purple ink to –“ he pauses, taking a breath. “ – to a woman.”

The letter had been written to a courtesan, in purple ink and Ghiscari words, and the green ribbon is still intact. In truth, there is nothing particularly dangerous about the letter, or the plot in it, and Varys has seen far worse since he has come to Pentos.

It was a failed plan for a friend of Derko to be named the new Sealord, lawful if inadvisable, and when the friend was knifed in his own house, another man was chosen. Tomas Derko has risen high in his new lord’s good graces since then, and so has the courtesan, and both of them would like the old plot to be forgotten.

“I understand,” Varys says. “You will have it back in… three days.” He stumbles some on the word, never really having learnt numbers in the Common Tongue before. He feels a surge of irritation, resolving to learn the language of the Seven Kingdoms to the best of his abilities from this day on, and he does.

He’s mastered numeration in two days, and he is starting on sailing and warfare terms on the evening he’s to meet with Derko once again. They exchange words and parchment and gold, share a cup of wine and a laugh before going their separate ways.

Two years later, when Illyrio Mopatis needs access to the Sealord’s palace, Varys knows who to ask.

* * *

 

II

King Aerys Targaryen, Second of His Name, looks exactly like he has imagined when he first heard of him. He has Valyrian colouring, which Varys assumes must look quite impressive to the Andals of Westeros, and even his rich clothes and haughty bearing cannot hide his sickly, feverish appearance. The king, Varys decides upon the first five minutes of meeting him, looks easily twenty years older than he is.

His sanity is also slipping, Varys has been warned, and it is quite possible this is the case. The king’s hands twitch and he can’t seem to stop blinking, turning his head ever so slightly every once in a while. Suspicious, Varys had been informed. Mistrustful. He certainly does look the part.

Varys bows deeply in front of the hideous throne, feeling Aerys’s gaze on his head and the cold presence of the two knights in white. He would have preferred a smaller room, perhaps an audience chamber, but the king seems to particularly favour this room and, Varys suspects, the symbol of his power.

“You are him.”

Aerys speaks up at once, and Varys winces. “The spy. You are him.”

He doesn’t much like the word, but this time it will have to do. “Yes,” and then, remembering. “Your Grace.”

“The one from Essos,” the king continues, and Varys nods.

“Tell me, spy. Are you really as good as you claim?”

Aerys’s left eye is trembling, Varys notices, and his tongue flicks over his dry lips. The king is watching him, and so are the guards, and the huge dragon skulls in the room seem to be watching him as well. Varys closes his eyes for a moment and takes a breath.

“I like to think so, Your Grace.”

“But of course you do,” the king answers at once, and it might, or might not, be a joke. In doubt, Varys doesn’t laugh.

“Tell me,” Aerys begins again. “Tell me something I do not know.”

This is, the question he is waiting for. Varys starts thinking, remembering, searching his mind for something that would serve, something to impress to king and yet not enough to scare him. What would serve the king best, Varys wonders.

“Your Lord Hightower is not as rich as he would like you to believe,” Varys begins. “He had a bad year, vermin and storms in the Narrow Sea. He’s had to take a loan from the Iron Bank, he refused to ask Lord Lannister.” He makes a pause, and he thinks he might have seen one of the two Kingsguard grimace. “However, he’s called in a shipmaster from Braavos to build new ones, and if everything goes well he will have recovered completely from his losses in five years.”

Varys pauses again, and looks at the king. It is everything Aerys has asked for, new information on one of his lords, and a possible rivalry with another House, and yet the king doesn’t look impressed.

He takes a breath, suddenly remembering something Illyrio said, once. _When talking business doesn’t work_ , Illyrio told him one evening in Pentos, _we pass to the choice gossip instead. You’d be surprised_.

“I can also tell you, Your Grace,” Varys begins again, “that Prince Oberyn had another daughter no longer than a fortnight ago, and I can tell you who the mother is.”

“Stable chats!” The king waves an hand in dismissal, but there is the ghost of a smile on his face. “Makes no matter who the woman is. The way Martell is going, he’d have bedded all of Dorne before Summer.”

“She is not from Dorne, Your Grace,” Varys dares to say. “The woman. She is from King’s Landing, Your Grace.”

The king shakes his head, but he’s listening. “Oh?”

Varys nods. “King’s Landing, You Grace. The woman lives, _did live_ , here. She was… a holy woman, Your Grace. A, septa, I believe you’d call her?”

The hesitance is purely for the king’s benefit, of course, and this time Varys is sure he sees one of the guards wince. Aerys, for his part, laughs openly, eyes twitching once again.

“A septa.”  He shakes his head once again, in mirth this time. “Well, go to your quarters, spy. Ser Gerord will show you the way.”

“I will see you, Varys of Lys. Tomorrow.”

* * *

 

III

Prince Rhaegar is reading of dragons when Varys comes in.

The heavy volume is red and leather bound, and Varys has lost count of the number of times he’s seen the prince reading it since he had first come to King’s Landing, and the prince himself looked almost as haggard and worn as the book in his hands.

His voice sounds exhausted, too.

“Well, master of whispers?” There’s disdain and anger in that voice, and none of the effortless charm that had made Rhaegar so liked and beloved. “Came to spy on my in my private rooms, too?”

This is not the prince’s private room, merely a smaller reading chamber no one else ever uses, but Varys refrains from pointing that  out. It wouldn’t do anyone any good.

“Nothing of the sort, my Prince,” he answers effortlessly. “I had been told you were unwell, and  merely wanted to see for myself if you needed anything.”

The prince needs sleep more than anything Varys could ever offer him, and even if there was something, he surely wouldn’t accept it from Varys without a good dose of grudging  complains first. They have a brash, uneasy acquaintance that is not really a friendship, made of mutual respect, late night discussions and occasional dislike, their apparent animosity just one of the many small fictions they both like to indulge in.

 “From you?” Rhaegar snorts, laying down his head on the top of the chair he uses for reading. The chair is like the book, red and leathery and worn, and Varys briefly wonders if the Crown Prince chose it on purpose.

“I need nothing from you, Varys,” he says, sharply, and it is his turn to snort.

“You look like the death.”

He picks another chair, not quite as comfortable, not quite as old, and sits down, Rhaegar’s eyes following his every move.

“I feel like death and I wish I was, if this is of any comfort.”

“It is not.”

The prince goes back to his book, eyes scanning every word on the page. He flips a page, then another. How many times has he read those words, Varys tries to imagine. How many times has he turned those pages, does he know the whole book by heart, is there something he still can’t remember. Varys lets his gaze trail on Rhaegar’s lips, tight in concentration, on his furrowed brows and narrowed lips, reading yet another kind of tale on that face.

“Are you quite done watching me, my Lord Varys?”

The sarcasm again. This is not like Rhaegar, and Varys wonders whether he’s knowingly imitating his father, or he doesn’t realize it. He heartily hopes the latter – the first is not a possibility he likes to consider.

“The servants are rather excited tonight,” he begins, waiting for the prince to take the bait. He does, closing his book with a finger between the pages, and Varys continues. “Some of the nobles are as well, though they try not to look like it”

“They are all very concerned with a particular star that wasn’t in the sky yesterday. An omen they say, a red star against the black sky. Although they can’t seem to agree on what it is supposed to be an omen for, but I thought you might know.”

The prince stood up at that, making for the door.

“Perhaps I do,” he says. “Thank you.”

He leaves his book on the chair when he goes, forgetful or simply too trusting, and whether Varys hadn’t precisely expected that, he had entertained the idea once or twice. Prince Rhaegar always keeps notes between these pages, and letters, and drawings.

It takes two minutes for Varys to find what he’s looking for, and two weeks to fully understand what it means. After that it takes two more months to persuade His Grace to leave the safety of the Red Keep for Harrenhall, but the risk the prince will do something foolish is too great, and he will do his best to avoid it.

As it turns out, he failed rather spectacularly.

* * *

IV

“I do believe, my Lord, that congratulations are in order.”

Varys looks as Eddard Stark winces, turning around with a hand on the hilt of the sword he’s not carrying, before he remembers he’s in the middle of the Red Keep and danger here comes in a different form.  
If he’s ever known at all.

He makes an effort to calm himself, however, schooling his features into a careful, expressionless mask. “My apologies,” he offers. “And my thanks, Lord Varys.”

The apologies Varys waves away with an airy hand, knowing all too well how little it takes to startle a military man, and the thanks he graciously accepts with a nod. Lord Eddard hasn’t asked _how_ he knows, something he’s glad for – no need to insult both of their intelligences.

“I hear it’s a boy,” Varys continues, because this is how the game is played. “A healthy, strong boy. His mother must be so proud, surely?”

“No more so than I am,” Stark answers, and Varys let himself smile.

They are walking side by side towards the rooms where the small council meets. Varys moving in stride and Stark following half a step behind, still unfamiliar with the turns of the corridors. Stark has been appointed master of coin for the time being, until Jon Arryn finds a suitable replacement and he goes back to his frozen wasteland – a month or two at the most, Varys suspect.

“Of course you must be, my Lord. And what a name to carry, such a fine name for a boy to live up to.” He says it like he means it, and Stark takes a moment to decide whether he’s going to believe him or not while Varys carries on, not caring much either ways.

“Did you choose the name yourself, Lord Eddard?” Stark blinks and Varys suppresses a second, involuntary smile. Few people in King’s Landing are as open with their emotion as the northman is, and he can certainly appreciate that.

“Or was it the mother’s doing? I would have expected a family name, myself, but there’s honour in honouring one’s friends, I suppose.”

“I suppose there is.” Stark is all ice and dry sarcasm at first, then pauses for a moment, and Varys knows what he’s thinking about.

“I suppose there is,” he says again, more somber. “I chose the name.”

Varys gives him another nod, and finds himself wondering why is always the best ones that are so blind. Eddard Stark is very much like Rhaegar in that regard, and he suspect the man might not be as adverse to that thought as he would claim to be.

They walk in silence the rest of the way, finally stopping before entering the room. There is a different Kingsguard at the door than Varys’s accustomed to, a different King inside, and even the room is not the one where Aerys’s council used to meet, but it doesn’t make a difference in the end. Varys smiles and lets Stark precede him into the room, none the wiser, and bows his head once again to the younger man to hide yet another smile.

Stark had heard what he wanted to and gave away more than he realized, and Varys wonders if he ever will. He moves to take his place at the table and bows to the king, all the while thinking furiously. It is not the time to make a move, and it might never be, and Eddard Stark hasn’t yet risen so high that he needs to fall. Some secrets, Varys decides, need time to mature, and he knows now the biggest secret of them all.

The smile doesn’t leave his face for days.

* * *

V

Queen Cersei and her brother, Varys had concluded some time during the first year of King Robert’s reign, were nowhere as discreet as they thought they were.

It had been almost laughable in the beginning, their secret smiles and little touches and lustful glances. Their faces were the funniest part of it all, icy distance and  cold arrogance, because a Lannister is nothing if not proud, and yet Varys could have waged his own life _that_ was not what Lord Tywin had in mind when he’d taught his children House loyalty.

Cersei also fancied herself a new Lann the Clever, Varys had noticed early on, and the way she seduced and smiled and strutted, playing the game and missing the stakes was perhaps the most entertaining part of it all.

The whole affair had become more and more interesting as the years went on and golden-haired Prince Joffrey was born, and Varys alternated his time between trying to decide whether Robert Baratheon was stupid or merely deluded, and examining the purely theoretical repercussions of an eventual reveal when the kingdom went to war once again.

Lannisport burned and Lord Lannister called his banner, and King Robert left his bride for his warhammer in the sixth year of his marriage, leaving his wife’s brother behind. _No king would want the Kingslayer at his side in battle_ , Robert had roamed halfway through his fifth cup of summer wine the night of the farewell banquet, laughing and spitting, and Ser Jaime had done his best to look contrite and carried on with his night.

Princess Myrcella was born eight moons after the end of the war, and yet nobody said a thing.

It had become more than a fascination at that point, the Spider’s favourite sport, and Varys often found himself thinking about the Queen and her brother, spending many a sleepless mind trying to find a rational explanation to their behaviour, be it some desire of rebellion or mere physical lust.

It was love, he decided eventually, the Kingslayer’s love for his sister, and the Queen’s love for herself. Lord Renly was knighted that day, and Ser Jaime won the tournament shining like the sun in his golden armour and Varys, for the first time, pitied him.

The days went by, and the years, and Robert’s court found itself home to many a scandal, yet nothing managed to ever amuse the master of whispers quite as much as the Queen’s affair had. Littlefinger had caught on some time after Prince Tommen’s birth, his eyes going wide during a court session. Varys had locked eyes with the other man, smiling, and waited a fortnight for something to happen, yet Baelish did nothing.

It’s one of his little birds who brings  him the message on a pleasant summer morning, and he already knows what to do.

He’s had years to think about it.

“We should start looking for a bride for the Prince soon,” he tells Jon Arryn one day. “I do realize the boy is still young, but the line needs a heir, and neither the King nor the Queen seems interested.” Varys brings himself to make a face, frowning. “It will take _years_.”

Arryn doesn’t seem to agree, and it is all according to plans.

“I do believe you are mistaken, Lord Varys,” he says, and Varys wants to tell him that was rather the point. “You make it sounds harder than it will be, for certain.”

“Harder for the Prince, my Lord Hand. He should have the time to find someone who will make him happy. He must choose wisely.” He pauses for a moment, saying nothing about the King’s own, disastrous marriage, and yet the ghosts are all there.

Arryn looks rather engrossed when Varys resumes again in a cheerful voice. “But then again, the prince will have his pick. Which young lady would refuse him? He’s the heir to the Kingdom and a pleasant enough boy, when he puts his mind to it.” He lets his voice trail away. “And handsome too, I suppose. What do you think, my Lord? He doesn’t look like the King for sure, but he favours the Lannisters well enough…”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [on tumblr](http://www.justoldlights.tumblr.com/) a lot lately. It's a thing.


End file.
